


honeyed

by mitskienthusiast



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Atsumu Is Whipped, Baking, Bread, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Fluff, Forehead Kisses, High School, Inarizaki, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Miya Atsumu, Vignettes, as he shoudl be honestly <333, kind of, kindof??, so horrendously in love w kita
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:20:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29972430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitskienthusiast/pseuds/mitskienthusiast
Summary: Miya Atsumu, in love at 17, 19, and 22.
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Miya Atsumu
Comments: 7
Kudos: 48





	honeyed

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact i sort of based this whole thing off a bread recipe? i wasn't planning on writing a fic at all until i found this recipe for baguettes in my docs and for some reason the thought of domestic atsukita + lovesick atsumu really struck me. i love them very much yes i do 
> 
> go try something new today!!! like a new hobby!!! go bake something!!! like french baguettes!!! it's fun i promise!!!

Light filters through the shaded windows of the kitchen, the cool rays of the winter sun peeking through the sheer lace curtains and leaving trails of glitter etched into the loose strands of Shinsuke’s hair.

Miya Atsumu is 22 and in love.

In the moment, it’s difficult to recount exactly how he got here. His thoughts are composed only of Kita Shinsuke and how the man’s eyes gleam in the cool sunlight, how his fingers work dexterously at the sticky bread dough. How the dark tips of his hair blend smoothly into its gray base, and how his lips twitch with focus as he rests the loose ball of dough in a glass bowl and covers it to let it rise.

There’s a gentle call of his name from across the kitchen island and he’s met with kind toasted eyes— _ kind-kind-kind, _ because everything about Shinsuke is kind and soft and sweet and elegant. He moves with an odd grace—the kind of fluidity you only see in skilled workers like him.

A voice floats faintly in Atsumu’s ears, familiarly gentle, but he’s too lost in the shimmering starlight of Shinsuke’s irises to process what’s being said.

A hand lands on his shoulder.

“Atsumu,” Kita says, and the way his given name escapes his tongue, teeth, and lips is intoxicating, “are you okay?”

Miya Atsumu, 22, blinks dazedly at the man he calls his lover now, and he nods. “Yeah,” he croaks out, “‘m’ really great right now, Shin.”

Shinsuke smiles, Duchenne markers and dimples and all, and presses his lips firmly to Atsumu’s temple in a show of affection. “Good,” he tells the blonde. “Let’s go sit on the couch, hm? The dough needs to rest.”

-

Artificial gym lights wash over Atsumu’s skin in a yellow-tinted haze.

Miya Atsumu is 17 and in love.

In the swirling, dizzying lights of the gymnasium, he feels hazy and sick. He  _ is _ sick, truth be told, but he's too stubborn to relent to his captain so easily when he's told to go home.

Nevertheless, he's forced into the locker room to change, where there's a plastic bag waiting for him on one of the benches.

_ Dear Atsumu— get a proper meal and then sleep. _

His eyes well up with tears. It’s almost comedic, but at the same time he's so sick that he can't stubbornly force down the tightness in his chest. He wails like a child, and he faintly hears someone laugh at him—probably Osamu, of course—but his mind is too focused on the sheer kindness glowing in the small gesture of his captain.

Oh, God. Atsumu figures his feelings aren't a product of being attention-starved. He's very much in love with Kita Shinsuke.

-

There's something beautiful in the way Shinsuke looks under fluorescent lighting. Atsumu has been aware of this stone-solid fact for the longest time. Growing up in high school, only knowing how Shinsuke looked under the grossly-tinted school lights—and occasionally, the sun.

Miya Atsumu is 22 and in love.

The television is a distant hum, words of dialogue melding together into messes of scattered syllables. Shinsuke is paying close attention to the show—he's always liked this one in particular, and Atsumu feels the slightest bit of guilt for not paying attention alongside his lover  _ (God, there it is again).  _ He figures that tracing the subtle details of Shinsuke's face is enough of an apology.

After years of being in love, Atsumu is still shaky, clumsy, and has a lingering fear of embarrassment in the presence of Shinsuke. Shinsuke is ethereal in nearly every meaning of the word. Even in the cheap lights of the television, hours after the sun has gone down, Atsumu is sure that Shinsuke is the most beautiful person he has ever met.

That's what Shinsuke is—beautiful-beautiful-beautiful and kind-kind-kind. Every moment spent in the shade of trees; or the light of stars; or the dimness of the living room; is enough to assure Atsumu of that

"Are you okay?"

It's a familiar phrase. One that Atsumu knows he's already heard today and many times in his life. He looks at Shinsuke—the crease in his brow, the part of his lips, the sleekness of his hair, and says, "Yes," with a fleeting hesitation in his voice and expression. Atsumu reaches up, short thumbnail tracing the curve of Shinsuke's brow and eyes trailing on the way his features blend together. Shinsuke is an oil painting, drenched in pastel shades and leaking colors and shaky lines.

"I love you." 

It's Shinsuke who says it first this time, and though it might be the thousandth time he's heard this, Atsumu still feels a telltale stirring in his diaphragm—a feeling like the color pink, something that tastes like banana bread and walnut cake, and smells like his mother's perfume. There's no name to it. He thinks it might be synonymous with love, but there's something so simple yet so complex about the feeling that he's not sure how to even describe it outside of colors, smells, and tastes.

"I love you too." Atsumu's lips are loose, and the words slip out like syrup. The scent of baking bread floats through the air when Shinsuke leans in, and Atsumu becomes malleable and pliant and burns when he kisses his lover.

Shinsuke tastes like chai spice. Everything is warm.

-

The blankets on Atsumu’s bed are warm with the remaining body heat, threads pliant in the loosened grip of his hand. There is music playing in the background, soft on his old speaker, and the only other noises come from the gentle scratch of his nails against the sheets and the deep breaths he takes to calm himself. 

Miya Atsumu is 19 and in love.

He wonders how he got here. He wonders what city he saved in his past life to end up here with Kita Shinsuke's arms draped around his shoulders, pulling Atsumu closer, warm breath escaping to brush against the blonde's lips.

Shinsuke smiles. It's loving  _ (oh) _ and inviting and the slightest bit cocky all at the same time— the distance between them is reduced to mere millimeters.

Atsumu is dizzy, but not in the  _ “sick-during-volleyball-practice type” _ of way like he felt in second year. He’s dizzy in the  _ “grossly-sweet lovesick-way.” _ He thinks he might be addicted.

"I'm proud of you."

The words are gentle, fleeting, and warm. Everything is warm. The heavy sheets on his mattress and the press of his wall against his back and Shinsuke's hands resting on his shoulders—everything floods his system and it's uncomfortable but so lovely all the same.

"Thank..." It's hard to get it out, the weight of Shinsuke's words matched with the weight of his hands resting on Atsumu, "Thank you."

Shinsuke smiles. Atsumu is reminded that  _ yes _ , this is the boy he is in love with, and this is the boy he will always be in love with. When Shinsuke drags his fingers into the dip of Atsumu's collarbone and trails his lips against the younger's closed eyelids, Atsumu knows that it's a silent way of speaking his love.

-

There's a lingering smell of baked dough even in the morning when he wakes up. He stumbles his way to the kitchen after waking up to an empty bed and is greeted with the domestic sight of Shinsuke splitting open baguettes lengthwise with a paring knife.

Miya Atsumu is 22 and in love.

“It turned out well,” Shinsuke tells him, picking up a spoon from the counter and scooping out some creamy spread that Atsumu doesn’t recognize at first glance. “I was worried about it being too tough. I didn’t know if I kneaded it too much, but I think it’s good.” 

Atsumu lingers in the wide opening of the kitchen before taking slow hesitant steps towards Shinsuke. The air gets sweeter as he gets closer and he thinks it’s very fitting. 

Shinsuke watches him, bright winter morning light reflecting in his sclera. There’s a gentle upward curve of his lips—thin and chapped and pink—and Atsumu knows that his gaze is lingering on them for far too long. 

“Would you like to try?” There’s a cheeky gleam in the older’s eyes and Atsumu wants to kiss his pretty face until he runs out of breath, but in the soft atmosphere of the morning, he knows that’s not the most applicable decision. Instead he resolves to planting himself in front of his lover  _ (hmm) _ and waiting for him to make a move. 

“There’s ricotta on it, and honey too. Makes it sweet.” Shinsuke continues, drizzling amber liquid onto the slices using a wooden honey dipper. Atsumu’s head is flying at the softness of it all—Shinksuke’s delicate dedication just to make simple treats for both of them. He got lucky. So lucky, and it’s overwhelming him. He knows he’s done many bad things in his life, and to be awarded with someone like Shinsuke is surreal. 

“Try,” Shinsuke lifts a slice to Atsumu’s lips, prompting him to take a bite. He does. It's wonderful. The bread is still warm, having been taken out just minutes before Atsumu got out of bed. It’s sweet and tangy and  _ the best _ . When Shinsuke lifts a thumb to wipe a blot of ricotta off the younger’s upper lip, he’s sure that this must be the best form of love he could’ve ever learned.

“Good?”

Atsumu kisses him. Simply, softly, and gently, unlike the everyday boisterous personality he takes up when he’s out. There is warmth in every movement and the lingering drag of Shinsuke’s fingers along his forearm makes him dizzy. 

Miya Atsumu is still 22. Miya Atsumu is still in love. 


End file.
